


The Prelude to a Kiss Affair

by Lixiwei



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 07:39:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13993635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lixiwei/pseuds/Lixiwei
Summary: “How dare you, Napoleon!”The bitter words played over and over in Napoleon Solo’s memory like an LP with an interminable skip as he trudged through U.N.C.L.E. headquarters trying to find his partner Illya Kuryakin one dark November Friday afternoon.They had been uttered by an enraged Kuryakin earlier that day at the height of an argument that began, not surprisingly, over a woman.





	The Prelude to a Kiss Affair

**Author's Note:**

> I began writing this story a decade ago, so it’s been sitting around a while. I revisit it now and then and tinker. It always had a beginning, a middle, and an end; and I’ve always wanted to polish it for posting. Perhaps sadly, I think this is as good as it’s going to get. It’s admittedly a little schmaltzy and full of tropes, but I am an old-school romantic at heart and unashamed to admit it.

_“How dare you, Napoleon!”_

The bitter words played over and over in Napoleon Solo’s memory like an LP with an interminable skip as he trudged through U.N.C.L.E. headquarters trying to find his partner Illya Kuryakin one dark November Friday afternoon.

They had been uttered by an enraged Kuryakin earlier that day at the height of an argument that began, not surprisingly, over a woman.

The pot began to simmer after Illya walked into Alexander Waverly’s outer office to find Solo and Lisa Rogers’ young assistant in a compromising position. Napoleon had the generously endowed redhead pinned against a wall and was just leaning in for the kiss when Illya innocently opened the door. He took in the scene, turned scarlet, and mumbled an apology. The secretary shot him a white-hot glare before turning back to search Napoleon’s face. Finding nothing—the tender moment had withered and died on the vine—she pushed him off, sent a second, now Arctic, glance Illya’s way, and pretended to busy herself with her filing.

Napoleon, annoyed with the Russian for having spoiled his bit of fun, smiled grimly, fixed his gaze on his partner and said, “Yes?” through gritted teeth.

“Eleven-thirty,” was Illya’s reply, their code for _Lunchtime_. He felt an utter fool and so hastily exited and was halfway down the hall before Solo could either speak or catch up. He allowed the embarrassment to turn to irritation as they headed the short distance back to their shared office. Once the metal door silently shut them in, once Napoleon said, “I thought we were going to the commissary,” once Illya had counted to ten, he’d let the first words fly.

“Don’t you ever turn it off?”

Napoleon looked at him quizzically. “Hmm? Oh! You’re referring to the fetching Alice?”

Illya gave him a hard look. “Her name is Elise.”

“Alice, Elise…,” the senior agent shrugged. “Well, when you’ve got it, you’ve got it. And _I’ve_ got it.”

Illya grimaced, closed his eyes for a few moments, and then opened them. When he spoke, his voice was subdued but filled with concern.

“Napoleon, this serial womanizing—it is becoming ridiculous. Especially these last few months. Is there one woman in this entire organization you have not tried to seduce?”

Solo brushed away his words with the wave of a hand.

“Illya, you’re being overdramatic”—he turned on his most dazzling smile—“I’m sure there’s at least _one_ woman.”

Solo was surprised his partner had noticed he was chatting up more girls than usual, given the younger man’s preoccupation of late with a certain brunette in Section Four.

“Even Mr. Waverly has commented on it,” Illya replied. “What’s going on with you anyway?”

“Nothing’s going on with me,” Napoleon answered defensively. “I just happen to like women, that’s all. You know that. I like chasing them. Letting them catch me. The romance, the candlelight, the music, the wine…”

“But there have been so many lately. Why?”

Napoleon didn’t have an answer, at least not one he could tell his friend—or anyone else for that matter. He shrugged and said nothing.

“You’re almost thirty-five,” Illya went on, “And I have yet to see you in a serious relationship. For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve jumped from woman to woman to woman—”

“Unlike you and Jaanika—” Napoleon exclaimed, immediately wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. This was not the time to let his jealousy show. He willed himself to calm down.

Illya did not rise to the bait. “We are not talking about Jaanika,” he said evenly. “We are talking about this…this obsession you have.”

Solo frowned. “I do not have an obsession. I am a perfectly normal, red-blooded American male who—”

“You are _addicted_ to women, Napoleon. They’re like a drug to you. And it’s getting worse.”

“I am not addicted to women, Illya. I’m just not ready to settle down yet, that’s all. Why are you so worried about my love life all of a sudden?”

Kuryakin studied his partner, thinking of the right words to say. “It’s not that I’m worried exactly,” he said after a long pause. “It’s that I hate to see you wasting your time on relationships that will never amount to anything. Why do you do it? There should be someone special in your life. Someone who matters.”

_Just like Jaanika matters to you,_ Napoleon thought miserably. He was glad for his friend, who heaven knew deserved happiness. But Illya’s newfound love had been truly unexpected—and devastating. It meant the CEA was losing him, that he’d missed what possibly had been his only chance…

Napoleon wished he’d just thrown caution to the wind and risked telling Illya long ago. Now it was likely too late. But, time to mull over that mistake later; he had vowed never to think about this during working hours. It was too distracting. With renewed focus on the subject at hand, he forced a conciliatory smile. “Look, I appreciate your concern but I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself, okay?”

But Illya wouldn’t let it go. His eyes were serious as they sought and held the senior agent’s. “Could you ever settle down with just one person?” he asked.

Napoleon, agitated by the question, had to look away. _Oh my friend,_ he thought, _if you only knew._ He slowly took a breath and just as slowly let it out; the difficulty of talking about this was starting to wear on him. “Illya,” he began patiently, “I’m very happy you’ve found a girlfriend, but I’m not you and—”

“She is not my girlfriend,” Illya cut in. “I am helping her learn Estonian.”

“Oh, is _that_ what you call it?” Solo countered sarcastically. His self-control was at an end. After all, his friend was the one abandoning him, not the other way around. Why should Illya try to deny his romance now, when it was obvious what was going on?

The blond man scowled. “Napoleon, again, this is not about Jaanika. I am just concerned—”

“Well don’t be,” the CEA snapped. “My love life is nobody’s business, Illya. Not even yours. I am perfectly happy with things just the way they are, and I’ll be the one to decide if and when that will change. Now, I do not want to talk about this or argue anymore. Got it? End of discussion.”

Kuryakin gave Solo a long look, let out a long breath, and shook his head. “All right, fine, you’ve made your point. I’m sorry I ever said anything.”

He turned away to retrieve his reading glasses but not before Solo noticed the crestfallen look on his face. Napoleon’s anger immediately melted away. His friend was only trying, however awkwardly, to help. It was really rather touching, and nice to know he cared.

Napoleon stood up and, hoping to dissipate the tension that had come to blanket the room, said in a kindly tone, “It’s time for lunch. We should eat. You look hungry.”

“Actually,” Illya answered, shuffling some nearby papers, “I just remembered I have a report I need to finish. You go ahead if you wish. I will eat later.”

“Oh come on, Illya,” Solo retorted, “You were the one who came looking for me about lunch. Of course you’re hungry. Let’s go.”

“I am not hungry.”

“What? You’ve got to be kidding. You’re always hungry.”

“I said I am not hungry,” Illya took up his pen, “And hungry or not, I think it would be better not to have lunch together today.”

This was the limit. A full-blown pout; so out of character. Then again, Illya’s entire romance was out of character. Well, if he could pout, so could Napoleon.

“Fine,” the senior agent said petulantly, “Go have lunch with your precious Jaanika then.”

“She is not my ‘precious Jaanika.’ I told you. We’re friends. That’s all. She and I have a lot in common and—”

“And last week I saw you kiss her.”

Illya blushed for the second time that day.

_“And_ you didn’t leave her place ’til five o’clock this mor—” Napoleon froze, his widened eyes locking onto the Russian’s. _Idiot!_ he said to himself. Now Illya would know he’d tailed the two of them. It was impossible for him to separate his actions from his emotions when it came to his friend; he was too close to it.

Illya’s eyes spit fire.

“You’ve been _spying_ on me?” he bellowed, bolting out of his chair.

Napoleon tensed, bracing for a fight. He should have remembered how anger could instantly consume Illya. Mortified, he couldn’t bring himself to answer the accusation.

Instead of assaulting his partner, Kuryakin strode across the tiny office, his face a mask of frozen fury. The automatic door yielded. He stood framed in the opening, looking down at Solo.

“How _dare_ you, Napoleon!” he railed, not caring who in the typing pool outside heard. “Jaanika and I should be able to go on a date without your approval! In future I would appreciate your staying out of my romantic affairs!” With that he turned on his heel and strode off. Every head in the suddenly silent space turned to stare, open-mouthed, as the office door slid shut in noiseless admonition.

Solo stared dolefully at the space where Illya had been. Then, head in hands, he sighed. It had been unforgivable of him to spy on his best friend but he could hardly help himself; he had to know.

What a mess it had all become. And all because Illya had decided to fall in love—with a woman, no less. Napoleon certainly hadn’t seen that coming. Obviously the rumor long on everyone’s lips—that Illya did not prefer the fairer sex— had no validity, much to the CEA’s chagrin.

Two long years, all for naught.

Two years it had taken Napoleon to work up the courage to decide to tell his friend who he really was beneath his carefully crafted playboy façade. Two years in the field risking life and limb beside this amazing and brilliant man who, despite Napoleon’s admittedly enjoyable forays into the feminine realm, from their first day together had owned his heart. Two years trying to figure out if this nearly inscrutable human being returned his feelings or was colleague and comrade but nothing more. Two years, all wiped out in two months by a pretty, brown-haired girl who was as warm and friendly as Illya could be clinical and terse.

Two years, for nothing. What a pitiable waste. And just when Napoleon had finally convinced himself it might be safe to tell Illya he’d fallen in love with him.

Two years…and now a knock-down drag-out to top it all off. What a wonderful day this was turning out to be.

“Insufferable Russian,” he muttered to the empty air. “Who would have thought you’d turn out to be straight?”

* * *

Three hours later found Napoleon searching U.N.C.L.E.’s nooks and crannies for his AWOL partner. Illya’s words continued to echo reproachfully in his head. There had been ample time to chew them over, and feel guilty, between a solitary lunch and a pile of overdue paperwork to review and sign.

When Illya hadn’t returned by two-thirty, Napoleon decided to find him himself so they could mend their fences.

Of course Illya had been on the right track about everything, but what he didn’t know was the reason for his friend’s behavior. Napoleon had stepped up his pursuit of women in stunned reaction to the Russian’s blossoming romance with Jaanika.

To say he was merely jealous only scratched the surface; his feelings went heart-deep. Illya was the only person on earth Napoleon could fully trust. He’d been about to expose the deepest part of his very soul, the core of his identity, hoping against hope that Illya would reveal they not only shared a common bond but also a common desire. Every minute of their partnership, their friendship, had been leading to that moment of admission, until Jaanika appeared and unwittingly snatched the opportunity right out of Napoleon’s hands.

And along with the opportunity, his hope of a future beside the man who had come to mean everything to him.

It hadn’t been an easy few months, watching his heart’s desire crumble to dust. He’d known it was coming, though, ever since that night nearly three months before...

Illya had drunk quite a lot of wine that evening after a quiet dinner in Solo’s apartment. It was August, but the day had been cool and damp, and they’d lit a fire.

The Russian had been fidgety that night, despite the volume of wine he’d consumed, uncharacteristically sprawled across the sofa while his partner watched him in the fire’s glow. For a long time Illya just sat silently, playing with his half-filled glass, lost in his own thoughts. Finally he looked up and said quietly, “May I tell you something?”

He looked a bit disheveled, as though he’d just woken up, wheat-colored hair fanned out on the cushion, blue shirt deepening the sapphire of his heavy-lidded eyes. The sight of him took Napoleon’s breath away—he had to shake himself back into the moment. Illya, his stoic white wolf, wanted to tell him something? This was going to be important.

“Of course,” the CEA had answered. “Tell away.”

“I’ve come to realize…” Illya began. He stopped and looked into Napoleon’s eyes. “I think I am in love.” Then he sat straight up, drained his glass, and stared at it fiercely. “No. I _am_ in love. I have been in love for quite some time.”

That stopped Napoleon in his tracks. Illya? In love? Napoleon assumed he’d never even thought about romance, that the word was not in his vocabulary. In two years he had not shown the slightest interest in anyone—not that Napoleon had noticed.

“You’re in love?” he answered softly as his mouth went suddenly dry. Fear, hope, despair washed over him in a cold, unwelcome wave. He felt breathless, half-drowned, not at all ready for whatever his friend might say. “Who’s the lucky lady?” he asked, the question tumbling out before he could clamp it down, before he’d realized how awkward—how inappropriately breezy—it sounded.

Illya looked up and met his partner’s gaze. Napoleon couldn’t read the expression in his eyes. Then Illya looked back down.

“No one. Never mind,” he answered dejectedly. “I should not have said anything.”

He uttered not another word about it that evening, his talk nothing more than small talk, office talk, music and science talk. And Napoleon, as much as his heart had ached to, knew better than to pry. The moment had been a tiny glimpse into his mysterious partner; a door cracked open, then slammed shut.

Illya had not spoken of it since. Barely four weeks later, he’d started seeing Jaanika.

Napoleon had his answer then. And his heart smashed to pieces.

He supposed, in hindsight, he should be grateful to the young woman. She’d actually prevented him from making what no doubt would have been the biggest mistake of his life. Had he told his friend about his attraction to men, his love for Illya, the Russian at best would probably have uncomfortably tolerated it and at worst might have asked to be assigned a new partner. Either way their friendship would never have been the same. It probably would not even have survived. And Solo would have no one to blame but himself.

The only thing to do now, this afternoon, was find him, proffer his apologies, and hope things would eventually return to normal.

Kuryakin was not on the fourth floor, nor the third. Napoleon was beginning to get an uncomfortable feeling about this and so decided to use company channels to locate him. He was just reaching into his breast pocket to retrieve his communicator when that device twittered a call through to him.

“Solo here,” he answered.

It was Waverly. “Mr. Solo, would you please come to my office immediately. We have a situation.”

Napoleon acknowledged the request and headed back upstairs. Along the way he beeped Wanda in Communications. “Any idea where my partner is?” he inquired. “He’s been missing all afternoon.”

“You’re not kidding,” came her _sotto voce_ reply. “Mr. Waverly sent him over to the U.N. for a quick translation job and he never came back.”

“What? What happened?” The hair on the back of Napoleon’s neck stood up. Illya was in trouble.

“I’m not sure. All I know is Jaanika Tamm went over with him and came back a little while ago alone. She was terribly upset. She’s been holed up in the Old Man’s office for the last fifteen minutes.”

“Why would Jaanika have gone to the U.N. with Illya?”

“Well, I just heard they’ve been dating—and that the two of _you_ had a big blowout—but I think he’s been teaching her Estonian too, hasn’t he? Word is the translation job was for a visiting Estonian dignitary. Some scientist or something—a Nobel Prize winner.”

At the mention of the Nobel Prize, Napoleon’s blood ran cold. There couldn’t be a connection with Kaasik; surely it was a coincidence. Surely there’d been more than one Estonian ever awarded the Nobel…

Solo’s mind flashed back almost a decade, and memories better forgotten came flooding into his consciousness.

He’d been a rookie in ’57. Assigned to veteran U.N.C.L.E. agent John Norton, under whose tutelage a younger, brasher Napoleon had gradually learned to rein in his temper and hone his already impressive spy skills.

They were on a mission in Prague, hot on the trail of the brilliant but deadly dangerous Estonian chemist Juri Kaasik. Kaasik’s twin brother Alfons, himself a gifted man of science, had in the ’30s been awarded the Nobel prize in Physics and during the war had escaped to France and joined with the Allied forces, fighting for victory in Europe. His brother, however, had been lured by the Axis ideology. Two sides of the same coin, one good, one impossibly evil.

After the war Juri had hidden himself away and kept busy with his experiments while helping to form a new organization of like-minded professionals—THRUSH. These men paid him well in exchange for the powerful truth serums and mind-altering drugs he methodically devised for them. The fledgling U.N.C.L.E. Europe, through its network of lab moles, had normally been able to formulate antiserums that would counteract Kaasik’s various truth juices. But the former Allied powers wanted to shut him down entirely; and when the elusive Juri had been spotted in Czechoslovakia, Norton and Solo, just ending an assignment in Europe, were dispatched to find him and bring him to justice once and for all.

They’d found him all right, but the end game of that mission had gone terribly wrong. There had been a shootout—in those days U.N.C.L.E. agents had relied on real bullets rather than sleep darts—and Juri’s wife Sonja had been caught in the crossfire. The autopsy revealed it was Juri’s own weapon that killed her, but the embittered Kaasik, raging like a madman, had promised death to the two agents, even as he was led away in chains after his well-publicized trial.

Alfons, brokenhearted by his twin’s many betrayals, nevertheless picked up the pieces and continued making inspired scientific contributions to the Free World.

John Norton had dropped dead of a heart attack five years later, and two years after that Illya had entered the picture.

Illya.

Solo’s mind snapped back to the present. He found himself at Waverly’s door.

“Thanks, Wanda,” he said into his communicator. “I owe you one.”

He walked straight through the outer office, without returning the assistant Elise’s eager look, knocked at the inner door, and walked in without waiting for a response. Waverly and Jaanika were sitting together at the circular conference table, he at his usual spot, pipe in hand and unreadable as usual.

“Where’s Illya?” Napoleon demanded, casting a ferocious look at the young woman, who had obviously been crying.

Waverly shot his CEA a warning look.

“Mr. Solo, a display of impatience will not facilitate Mr. Kuryakin’s recovery. We are already attempting to locate him. I bear full responsibility for this matter. Miss Tamm is in no way at fault. Allow her to describe the events as they happened. We’ll formulate a further plan from there.”

He urged the girl to begin.

Jaanika Tamm cleared her throat, looked levelly at Napoleon through cobalt-blue eyes, and spoke.

“It all started around noon,” she began, “Illya—Mr. Kuryakin—stopped by my station and asked if I’d like to accompany him over to the United Nations. Mr. Waverly had just received a call from a friend there—”

“Nigel Croft, an old school chum,” Waverly interjected. “On the Secretary-General’s staff.”

Jaanika went on. “Mr. Croft had called to see if any of our agents or translators spoke Estonian. A gentleman from that country had arranged for a tour this afternoon, and Mr. Croft’s translator hadn’t shown up. Mr. Waverly knew Illya was our only fluent speaker and so asked him to go over. And it would be good experience for me. It’s my father’s native language and I’ve been studying it, so he suggested I tag along.”

“The gentleman in question—Alfons Kaasik?” Napoleon asked. Waverly nodded, “So we were told.”

“Illya was acquainted with Kaasik,” Napoleon explained. “They met briefly when Illya was at the Paris branch.”

Waverly replied. “As Mr. Kuryakin said, it would be a friendly re-acquaintance between two men of science.”

Jaanika took up her story.

“Everything went smoothly. It was a standard U.N. tour beginning promptly at one. The guide was American and spoke English. We stood next to Mr. Kaasik, a little apart from the group, and Illya translated. There were about ten others on the tour, all Americans I think. It lasted about forty-five minutes—”

“How did Illya act around Kaasik?” Napoleon interrupted.

“Fine, at least as far as I could tell. Cordial but somewhat reserved. No different from his usual self. When the tour was over Kaasik asked if we would mind accompanying him to his car. The three of us walked down to First and 42nd. A black limo was there, a Lincoln with New York plates.”

“Did you get the license?” Solo asked, more of a demand than a query.

“Only a partial,” Jaanika answered. “All I could see was MR-20. The last two digits were covered by mud. That must have been on purpose, although I didn’t think anything of it at the time. There was nothing else on the car to distinguish it.”

“We’ve already been in touch with the Department of Motor Vehicles,” Waverly interjected. “They’re attempting to identify the limousine.”

“A limo like hundreds of others in the city,” Napoleon commented. “Go on, Jaanika.” He was impressed with the relative cool-headedness of the girl and her attention to detail, given the circumstances. “What happened next?”

“It all happened so fast after that. Two men got out of the car and got behind us. I didn’t notice because Kaasik kept us busy talking. They pulled guns—I saw one put a gun in Illya’s back and I felt a gun in mine. Kaasik switched to English then. He spoke perfect English. He said if we didn’t do exactly as he said he would kill us. He told Illya to give him his gun and communicator, and Illya did. Kaasik knew about the homing device in the pen. He removed the device and smashed it under his heel and then put the pen in his pocket. Then he told Illya to get in the car. Before Illya did—” Jaanika faltered, her eyes growing wide, “he said, ‘Please let the girl go.’”

A tear ran down her cheek. She wiped it defiantly away and continued.

“Kaasik told him not to worry, that he only wanted Illya. So Illya just looked at me and then got into the back seat. Kaasik and the other two men followed him. Then the car took off down 42nd. And I ran back here.”

She stopped then and looked from one man to the other. All three deep in thought, no one spoke for a moment.

Napoleon broke the silence. “Sir, I believe this is clearly the work of Juri, not Alfons, Kaasik. Somehow he must have gotten out of prison. I can’t believe Alfons would have anything to do with this.”

“Nor do I, Mr. Solo,” Waverly said. “What do you suggest we do about it?”

“Kaasik undoubtedly is still involved with THRUSH and must receive information about us from them. He must have known Illya and I are partners and that Illya is fluent in Estonian. Kaasik probably arranged for the U.N. interpreter to miss his appointment somehow, either by bribing or detaining him or worse. And he obviously took Illya to get to me. If he has Illya’s communicator I think I should try to reach him.”

A sudden incoming call on Waverly’s own device prevented him from answering his senior agent. Napoleon knew the message was urgent; otherwise Wanda would never have sent it through.

In answer to his acknowledgement a voice that brought a chill of recognition to the CEA came through. Kaasik. He sounded a bit older, his voice slower and deeper in pitch, but Napoleon would have known it anywhere. His fists clenched involuntarily. The bastard had Illya, and it was Napoleon’s fault.

The voice crackled through. “This is Juri Kaasik speaking. As you no doubt know by now I am holding your agent Illya Kuryakin. If you want to see him alive again you will follow my instructions.”

Jaanika and Solo exchanged glances. “Go ahead, Mr. Kaasik,” Waverly replied.

“I want Napoleon Solo. He’ll know why. Here is what he is to do. There is an abandoned mental asylum in your state of New Jersey, at the end of Wilson Road in Kearny, near the railroad tracks by Pennsylvania and Central Avenues. Solo will drive alone to this complex, without any weapon, tracking or communication equipment. My men will pick him up there, and he will be thoroughly searched. If we discover anything on him, we will kill Kuryakin. No one is to be following him…”

As Kaasik continued with his instructions, Napoleon began to mentally prepare for the night ahead. He was confident that, once he was reunited with Illya, they’d be able to get out of this mess. But all he really cared about was his friend’s safety.

* * *

There had been more time to think this evening, after Solo left the security of his own vehicle in the weedy gravel lot on the outskirts of Kearny barely an hour after Juri Kaasik’s call. He disliked the eerie isolation of New Jersey’s Meadowlands: too many convenient places to successfully dispose of human remains. He fervently hoped the marshes would not be welcoming two more bodies before the night was over.

Napoleon knew he was walking into a trap as lethal as any he’d ever before encountered by surrendering himself to Kaasik with his wits as his only defense, but he had no choice. The CEA must follow Kaasik’s instructions to the letter. Illya’s life was at stake.

He just wished they hadn’t argued…

Suddenly from the middle of the parking lot a pair of headlights appeared and washed over the senior agent. He heard the sounds of two people walking toward him and was ordered to raise his hands.

* * *

It seemed they had driven all over New Jersey before Kaasik’s limo finally drew to a stop. The blindfold one of Kaasik’s men had tied around Napoleon’s eyes was removed, and he was ordered to exit the car. He’d known they were in an urban area because of the street noises; but as he climbed out of the Lincoln he had no idea of his exact location. His guess was Newark. Around him were deserted streets, deserted industrial buildings. He didn’t have a chance to look for street signs; he was immediately herded into the dilapidated, nondescript structure before him.

Guns drawn, the men took him down a short flight of stairs and through a door into a dark, dank basement corridor, where he came face to face with Juri Kaasik. The chemist looked barely older than he had a decade before.

“Ah, Mr. Solo, what a pleasure to see you again after all these years,” Kaasik said, his eyes coolly appraising the CEA.

“I wish I could say the same,” Napoleon replied. “Ten years in prison doesn’t seem to have done you much harm.”

“Ten years of waiting for this moment has kept me content. Patience has always been one of my virtues.”

“How did you manage to escape?”

“It was quite simple really. My people took something belonging to my dear brother. To ensure the safety of —that something—I merely asked him to change places with me for a while, and he was most willing to oblige. The silence of the prison guard was easily purchased, my brother and I exchanged places… and so here I am in America.”

Napoleon knew through Illya that Alfons had married late in life and had a son who would be a teenager now. He was willing to bet the boy or his mother was the “something” Juri’s people had taken.

“I see...and I’m sure you have every intention of returning once your business here is, shall we say, complete,” Solo said with a trace of sarcasm.

“Of course I do. I lack for nothing in my little home except the privilege of traveling, and I am generally content to be in one place. I promised I’d be back in a month. And I always keep my word—on every promise I make,” Kaasik looked pointedly into Napoleon’s eyes as he spoke. The CEA knew he was referring to the death threat he’d made in the courtroom all those years before. “My brother can easily prove his identity if he must. He lacks the scar your bullet so obligingly provided me that unhappy day. The day you killed my Sonja.”

Napoleon swallowed down the words he wanted to say and instead changed the subject. “Where’s my friend Mr. Kuryakin? Surely now that I’m here you can release him. I’m the one you want.”

“Ah, yes, your friend. A fascinating man. Extremely knowledgeable but rather sullen for my taste, although he was polite enough at your United Nations complex. He is currently indisposed. You will be joining him shortly. In the meantime, may I offer you some refreshment?”

One of Kaasik’s men, his weapon still trained on Solo, nudged him, none too gently, to move. The three walked down the long corridor, under the anemic glow of an occasional overhead light, toward a door at the end which as they neared the assistant strode ahead to open. Inside the barely lit room Napoleon glimpsed with relief a familiar thatch of saffron hair. It was, however, on a head that Solo in another heartbeat realized was far too still. As his eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness in the room, he saw his partner.

“Illya?” he said quietly enough to hear his heart pound. Ahead that man sat slumped in a hard metal chair, hands bound behind him. He did not respond to the senior agent’s voice.

“Illya?” Napoleon repeated, panic rising in his chest.

Nothing.

Napoleon broke away from Kaasik and went to Kuryakin’s side.

And saw where the bullet had entered his head.

The Russian’s left temple was marred by a small, round hole, almost pristine in appearance. His eyes were open, staring, dull…dead.

He was dead.

But he couldn’t be dead. Not Illya. No.

Illya was immortal.

Wasn’t he?

A sucker punch to the gut practically doubled Napoleon over. Except that no one had punched him. It was shock. He was alone in the semi-dark room with his dead partner, and he couldn’t take his eyes away from the bullet hole. But it couldn’t be Illya, there was no way; it had to be an Illya rendered in wax. It was too unreal to be…real.

Napoleon reached out his hand to touch what he knew must be wax but drew it back in horror when he felt warm flesh instead. They must have just done it. Too late. A wave of nausea engulfed him.

“Illya? _Illya!”_ he yelled, not believing, as if yelling the name would bring him back. He spun round to face Kaasik, eyes wide in utter horror, in grief, rage. Crying out—“You _shot_ …” he began, a half-strangled sob. He couldn’t finish. If he said the words, they might become real.

And yet, it was real. In a sliver of time, then, incredulity, disbelief, confusion all melted, and froze back into one clear sliver of ice-cold actuality. Illya was dead. Solo knew he had to accept this. His deepest fear had come to pass. God knew he’d been there enough in his own nightmares.

Napoleon turned back to the gloomy light to look once more upon his partner. The bullet had lodged in Illya’s brain before it could exit. There was little blood at the entry site; the bullet had done its job quickly. Napoleon was grateful for that. He knew Illya did not like blood. He remembered once when Illya had cut his finger slicing vegetables for their dinner one night. It was a deep cut, and the color had momentarily drained from his face. He’d been embarrassed about his reaction and had gotten angry when Napoleon teased him about it later. He’d threatened to break Napoleon’s arms. Illya didn’t like to show he was in any way vulnerable…

No more dinners, no more evenings together. No more jesting threats. He was gone. This was real.

Napoleon loved him, and now he was gone. He would never know—it was too late.

Forcing himself, Napoleon now looked into Illya’s vacant eyes. He reached out and gently lowered the still-pliant eyelids. And caressed his friend’s face as he had done only in dreams for countless nights before.

_“Proshchay, miy kokhanyy,”_ he whispered tenderly into Illya’s ear, hoping Illya might somehow still hear in death his truth. _Farewell_ … The next moment, flooded with shock and suddenly feeling wretchedly ill, Napoleon pitched down and down, into blessed black oblivion.

* * *

Coming close to consciousness. Sounds. Quiet scratching sounds nearby. Not next to him but across a space. Rats gnawing? A roar in his head. Stomach sick. He was so cold; was he laid out on wet stone? He thought of Illya. Gone. Nothing mattered now. Gone.

He didn’t care.

He wanted to sleep. To never wake up.

He wanted to be with Illya.

Nothing mattered anymore…

* * *

At first Napoleon could not open his eyes for the pain in his head; he could only feel what was beneath his hands. He was flat, body aching against a chilled, hard floor: cold cement. His head, however, was cushioned and warm, pillowed by something soft, the smell of it familiar, comforting. Its scent was irresistible. It bore through all the layers of fog in his brain, calling him like a siren song to wakefulness.

He didn’t want to awaken. He wanted only to join Illya, in heaven or in hell or in a blank endless void—he didn’t really care. But that wonderfully soothing smell…what was it? He knew it so well. It meant he was safe.

Such sickening pain. He concentrated on just breathing for a few minutes and tried not to see the hole in Illya’s head. He didn’t do a very good job.

After a while the pain abated somewhat, enough so that he found his eyes would open. They ached horribly against the light, so he closed them down to slits. Again he heard the small scrabbling noises behind him. He did not want to move his head but knew he had to. Slowly he sat up. Vertigo and a violent throbbing grabbed hold of him; he fought the urge to vomit but could not stop himself from emitting a quiet moan.

“Oh, good. You’re up,” Illya’s voice said from the same place the sounds had come from.

Illya.

No. Illya was dead. Napoleon must be asleep, dreaming of him. But he was so cold, he felt so sick; how could this be a dream? Then, through the mist, a thought occurred to him.

“Illya?” he said, his voice a croak. It was difficult for his mouth to form words; he felt anesthetized. “Are we dead?”

He didn’t care if they were dead, as long as they were together.

“No,” came the reply, “although I soon will be if we don’t find some food. I missed lunch. And dinner.”

_That_ was certainly Illya, wasn’t it? But Solo had seen his body. He was so confused. How could they both be in the same place? How could Illya not be dead?

Everything was slow, thick. Like moving through molasses. His head… He was able to turn it now, at least. He opened his eyes and, miracle of miracles, the first thing he saw, in a blur, was Illya. The blurriness faded. They were in a jail cell within a basement. But they were together. A high window in the basement wall looked onto a moonlit sidewalk.

Napoleon looked back at Illya, in white shirt, black pants, black socks with a hole at the heel, his shoes beside him. He was kneeling, attaching bits of putty to the hinges of the barred door of their cell. He reached into his shoe and pulled another bit of putty from it.

“But…you’re dead,” Napoleon said groggily. “I saw you. They shot you.”

Then he saw what had cradled his head, what had beckoned him with its smell: Illya’s black suit jacket, neatly folded. Solo ran his hand over it to see if it was real. It was. He picked it up, breathed in its scent, hugged it to his chest: imprudent gestures, he realized, with Illya so near. He quickly put it back down, but kept his hand, which was shaking, upon it. Touching the jacket made the blood rushing through his veins bubble like champagne.

They must be alive after all, if his body could feel like this. This ill, but this buoyant too, because Illya was there.

He chanced another look toward the cell door. Illya was still there, still working, still breathing. Napoleon stared, feeling drunk with the knowledge. But…

“But I saw your body,” he said, voice still a bit unsteady.

“Well, for a corpse I am surprisingly animated, wouldn’t you say?” Kuryakin replied with a tight smile. “Just rest for a moment—close your eyes—and your head will clear.”

Napoleon longed to shut his aching eyes yet could not. His joy at the sight of the Russian, alive and close, would not allow him to do so. He kept staring. “You’re really _there?”_ he asked after a minute. “What…how…?”

Illya looked up. “You are not seeing things anymore, Napoleon. We’re both alive. You were drugged, that’s all.”

Drugged? He hadn’t eaten or drunk anything since leaving headquarters—however could he have been drugged? “How…was…?” he began. Still difficult to speak.

“Transdermally. Kaasik’s drug was placed in liquid form on your blindfold and was absorbed through your skin. It was what I believe you would call a double-whammy: it not only drastically lowered your inhibitions but it caused you to hallucinate, all without altering your state of consciousness the least bit. You did not feel any different and had no idea a drug was in your system. Although I suppose that would actually be a triple- or even a quadruple-whammy, would it not?”

Napoleon, still sluggish, had trouble following his partner’s words; but it didn’t matter. Illya was alive. It didn’t matter that they were locked in a jail cell, in the middle of the night in the middle of New Jersey, trapped in a ramshackle building with a lunatic bent on revenge—as long as they were together. Through his haze, Solo rather naively at that instant vowed never to let the Russian out of his sight again and immediately laughed at himself for the absurdity of it.

Illya was still talking excitedly away, oblivious to his friend’s bliss, periodically reaching down into one of his shoes for more putty.

“…Kaasik told me all about it. He thought I would be interested from a scientific standpoint—and he was right. I cannot wait to get my hands on it for reverse engineering. The drug penetrates your subconscious, isolates your greatest fear and literally creates it before your eyes, and finally causes a kind of nervous collapse. At that point you lose consciousness. In those with precarious emotional stability the drug is supposed to render you mad. It is a brilliant invention—still in the initial testing stages, and you were unfortunate enough to be one of his guinea pigs. A particularly nasty experience to go through, judging from what I saw. Can you imagine it unleashed on a vulnerable public?”

He stood up and hastily went to work on the cell door’s upper hinges. Napoleon, feeling better now, found himself unable to stop looking at his friend’s hands as they deftly molded the putty. Such perfect hands…

He glanced down to look in comparison at his own hands only to see that his tie, the apparently not-so-secret U.N.C.L.E. hiding place for thin-film plastic explosive, was gone. He looked back up and noticed they had taken Illya’s tie as well. His gaze dropped to Illya’s shoes.

“For some fortuitous reason they did not confiscate our footwear,” Illya said, glancing at the CEA and reading his mind. “They checked my heels but luckily I secreted this lot from the top, beneath the insoles. They totally missed it. I’ve been working on an alternative form of that new C-4 explosive in my spare time—something to take out a door, not an entire building—and I am about to light the fuses. In about thirty seconds avert your eyes. It will be rather bright and I know your head hurts. It should not be too loud.”

Napoleon closed his eyes, turned to the side, heard a hiss, and suddenly felt Illya next to him. His head was feeling better and at that moment his happiness knew no bounds. He leaned into Illya as much as he dared and secretly relished the warmth. Then he remembered their fight. Not wanting to waste any time reconciling, he spoke contritely. “I’m sorry we argued. It was entirely my fault. I should never have spied on you.”

“It’s all right. I’m sorry too.”

“You’ve nothing to be sorry about. I behaved abominably.”

Illya shook his head and started to say something, but at that moment the hissing stopped, and all his attention went back to the cell door. From there came a flash and a muffled pop. Kuryakin grinned like a Cheshire cat.

Napoleon caught the grin and chuckled. Illya never smiled like that unless he got to blow something up.

“Excellent,” the Russian said, still grinning. Then he turned serious. “I am very happy we are both alive,” he said, looking into his partner’s eyes and reaching to squeeze Napoleon’s arm. And then, “Do you think you can get up? You should be all right once you start moving around. Apparently there’s no thundering hangover like with the usual THRUSH drugs. I do not mean to hurry you, but Kaasik does intend to kill us.”

Illya, who had slipped on his shoes, helped Napoleon to his feet, one comforting arm supporting him round the waist. Once he knew the CEA could stand on his own, he retrieved his jacket and balled it up into a huge glove to protect his hand from the heat as he yanked the ruined cell door open. They crossed to the window. The Russian climbed on Solo’s shoulders and, using the same hand, punched out the glass. Napoleon shuddered inwardly at the beating that suit jacket was taking.

They quickly escaped out onto the sidewalk, Illya pulling his still slightly torpid partner behind, and emerged into the chill New Jersey night. The cold immediately banished Napoleon’s sluggishness as they hurried down the street to the cover of another anonymous building. After determining their location—they were indeed in Newark—the Russian calmly pulled a communicator out of his breast pocket. “Open Channel D for Alexander Waverly,” he said.

Napoleon looked at him quizzically.

Illya shrugged. “I keep a spare in my other shoe. I could not activate it until Kaasik left us alone—I contacted headquarters while you were still unconscious.”

Waverly’s voice crackled through. “Mr. Kuryakin, I’m glad to hear from you again so soon. May I take it that you and Mr. Solo have gained your freedom?”

“Yes, sir. We are currently in Newark, at the intersection of…University and Bank.”

“Yes, we determined your location some minutes ago. A team is just arriving. Let them do the capture and cleanup work. I’ve sent a separate vehicle so the two of you can report back here immediately for debriefing. We’ll pick up Mr. Solo’s automobile tomorrow. Oh—and Mr. Kuryakin. I expect you are hungry, but I want you both back here right away. Please refrain from stopping off for food on your way back. I’ll have the commissary send something up for you. Waverly out.”

Illya capped his pen and made a face. “Wonderful. Commissary food,” he grumbled.

“Never mind,” Napoleon, deliriously happy, consoled. “Next week I’ll take you to the Tea Room.”

* * *

Illya invited Napoleon to his apartment for dinner the next day. He’d gone for takeout because he knew Napoleon would have just picked at his meal had it been Illya’s cooking. Napoleon hated his cooking. After they ate they sat on the sofa drinking wine. Illya was a bit jumpy again, Napoleon noticed, fiddling nervously, distractedly with his wine glass.

“Anything wrong?” the senior agent asked. He was reminded of one of their last after-dinner conversations: the August evening Illya had confided in him. The night all the trouble had started. Illya wore that same unfocused look. But Napoleon had, in the past twenty-four hours, decided he’d no choice but to accept the Russian’s feelings towards Jaanika, as much as it hurt his heart, and just to be grateful his friend was still alive—and still his friend.

The Russian repositioned himself so that he sat cross-legged facing Napoleon and looked for a long moment into his friends’ eyes. When he finally spoke, his voice was solemn.

“Napoleon, we need to talk.”

And here it comes, Solo thought: sure he would hear his partner announce that, after their brush with death yesterday, he’d realized love was more important than field work and so had proposed marriage to Jaanika, and that she’d accepted. And so Napoleon braced himself.

“Okay,” he said, heart nevertheless sinking, “I’m listening.”

It took a full minute for Illya to open his mouth. Solo waited, barely breathing.

“When Kaasik had us…” Illya began. “When you saw me—when you saw what you thought was my dead body—” Then he sighed impatiently. “Napoleon, I was right there in that room with you last night. You did see me. I was tied to a chair, just like you saw, but in your mind, because of the drug, I was dead. I kept shouting your name, over and over, hoping you’d hear my voice, but you didn’t. You couldn’t. In your mind I was dead and nothing, no stimulus, could change that. Not while the drug was active. What I am trying to say is I…I saw how you reacted, what you did…when you reached out to touch my face, you actually touched my face. I heard you say goodbye. I heard exactly what you said…” He looked down for a moment, then back up, eyes locking meaningfully onto his partner’s.

Napoleon filled with a cold dread. Kaasik’s drug had had no effect on his memory, and he realized that, in his uninhibited state, he had spoken Ukrainian, bidding farewell not to his comrade, but to his _kokhanyy_ …

His _beloved_...

Illya knew.

He knew Napoleon was in love with him.

The senior agent was, for one of the few times in his life, speechless. He had no idea what he could possibly say after this revelation.

Finally though, he realized all he should say was the truth. “I suppose,” he began, “I could try to bluff my way out of this by convincing you I used the wrong word, that I thought I was saying ‘friend.’ But you know me better than that. My accent might leave a bit to be desired, but we both know you taught me to speak the language flawlessly.” His smile was bleak.

“Napoleon, I don’t know what to say. I—”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Solo interrupted, wishing he could sink through the very floor. “Besides, what is there to say?”

“No, no—you don’t understand. It’s just that I am so surprised. The idea that you might be attracted to men never entered my head. All those women…”

“I’ve always been drawn to women as well as men. Obviously I play that up so that no one will know the full range of my…inclinations… Look, Illya, for whatever it’s worth, it’s always been you. Only you. No one else.”

Kuryakin looked at the CEA, silent, his expression grave.

“All those girls…it was all just for fun. None of them ever expected anything—don’t think they did. I knew nothing could ever become serious with any of them, and I made that clear with each one of them from the start. In my heart there’s never been anyone but you. You do believe that, don’t you? Even if you can’t comprehend it…”

The Russian nodded solemnly. “And you have carried this…” his hand went to his heart, “this… feeling with you—how long?”

“Since the day we met. And try as I might to discourage it, the feeling has only gotten stronger.”

“All this time, you and I...” Illya slowly shook his head. He looked so sad; Napoleon knew his friend must this moment feel only pity for him, and his heart broke all over again. Suddenly he knew he had to escape to the safety of his own apartment. He was tired to the bone; it had been an exhausting two days.

“Look, I should go,” he said, standing up. “I expect you have plans with Jaanika.” Illya had been going out almost every Saturday night, whether he and Solo had dinner beforehand or not.

“No—don’t go. Not tonight,” Illya replied. “That is…I am not seeing her tonight. What I mean is… Napoleon, you don’t understand. Jaanika and I do not date. We never have.”

Napoleon sat back down and looked at him in confusion. “But I thought you were in love with her.”

Illya said nothing.

Napoleon went on, “I followed you. I saw you kiss her.”

Kuryakin frowned and looked away. “I know you followed me. That is _why_ I kissed her.”

Solo’s look of bewilderment deepened. “I don’t understand.”

“No, I expect you do not. That kiss was a bit of subterfuge on my part. I could not understand at the time why you would want to follow me, but now…well, now I do. And I apologize for doing what I did. But at the time I had an idea, knowing you were watching us, of how to quell the rumor about me that has been going around headquarters. I suggested to Jaanika that if you saw me kiss her, you would spread the word that we were dating and the rumor might be dispelled. She was gracious enough to agree. But you never said anything, did you?”

“No. It would have been too painful. I couldn’t even think about it.”

Illya nodded. “Yes, I can see that now, although I did not understand it before. I am sorry it caused you pain.”

Napoleon smiled grimly. “It’s kind of you to say that. Thank you. So you kissed her hoping it would squelch that rumor. That’s all.”

Another nod. “But obviously my plan did not work. So I tried to think of another way to let it be known I was, ostensibly, interested in Jaanika. Coming upon you and Elise in Mr. Waverly’s office yesterday offered the perfect opportunity. It allowed me to voice a concern which in turn I was able to engineer into a full-blown argument.”

Solo looked even more confused. “Our fight was not a real fight?”

“No. It was merely a means to an end. The only part that was real was my concern for your happiness. I used the opportunity of our orchestrated disagreement to let my so-called romance with Jaanika be publicized as far around the fourth floor as my voice would carry. To try to quash the rumor.”

“And I played right into your hands,” Napoleon said, suddenly understanding. So that was why Illya, who normally kept his feelings so deeply hidden, had been so publically vocal yesterday. Smart Russian. Word that Jaanika and Illya were a couple had spread like wildfire. “But if you two aren’t seeing each other, why have you been spending so much time with her? Why did you stay over the other night? No—forget I asked that. It’s none of my business. And I’m sorry beyond words for what I did.”

“I don’t mind that you ask, Napoleon. And I did not mind that you followed me; as I said, it just confused me. I have told you the truth all along. I am helping her with her Estonian—I have been since September. She and her parents are going back to her father’s homeland next month, and she is learning it as a surprise to him. The other night time got away from us. It was late, I was tired, and she let me sleep on her sofa. That’s all.”

“So the kiss meant nothing…you aren’t in love with her.”

Illya shook his head.

“And she isn’t in love with you?”

“She is not in love with me. As I said before, I am only tutoring her.”

“But…you told me a few months ago that you’re in love—that you’ve been in love for a long time…”

A nod. Blue eyes softened.

“But not with Jaanika.”

“Not with Jaanika.”

“Well, then—who? No, wait—that is none of my business either. And, to be honest, right now I don’t think I could bear to know.”

“But you need to know. It is very important.”

“Oh…” A sinking feeling. “Someone I know?”

“Yes, very well,” the younger man smiled.

“Oh.” A sudden, stomach-churning thought. “April?”

Illya sighed, exasperated. “You know, for an intelligent man you can sometimes be extraordinarily dense.”

“Not April?” Who else could it be? And where in the world could he have found the time, between tutoring Jaanika and spending most of his very existence with Napoleon, to meet and court another girl?

“Wrong gender,” the Russian offered quietly. He glanced up shyly for any reaction to his admission and saw instead a look of sudden alarm.

_“Mark??”_

Illya rolled his eyes. Then, in a supremely uncharacteristic burst of spontaneity, reached for the CEA’s hand and clasped it between his own.

Solo was thunderstruck. Did this mean—? Could it be—? His heart began to hammer.

Kuryakin looked reverently into his friend’s eyes.

“Napoleon,” he began.

Napoleon’s heart stopped. “Yes?” he gulped, terrified. Ecstatic. Terrified.

“You and I have shared dinners at least three times a week for two years now. We spend practically every waking moment together, both on duty and off.”

Solo’s heart resumed beating. At a gallop.

Illya continued. “Look around. We are in a candlelit room. Soft music is playing on the hi-fi, and we are drinking wine. Not even red wine, but white. I have never invited April for dinner, nor Mark. I have never invited anyone for dinner but you… Is the one with whom I am in love not almost painfully obvious?”

Funny and wonderful and miraculous, Napoleon mused, how a heart broken mere minutes ago could mend so perfectly in the blink of an eye. His head was suddenly swimming. Illya loved him! And all at once it was a bit too much: the romance, the candlelight, the music, the wine… His utter bliss unnerved him enough to make him unsure, and he had to be sure. There could be no doubt.

“Are you saying what…I think…you’re saying? Because if you’re not, you need to tell me…”

Kuryakin laughed softly. “Napoleon,” he said.

“You do mean me, don’t you?”

“Napasha…”

“I’m the one you love?”

Illya, eyes sparkling, grinned lopsidedly and laid a gentle finger across his partner’s lips.

“Shut up and kiss me,” he whispered.

The End


End file.
